


The Truth Is...

by WhyDoIWrite



Series: Flashback Fridays [2]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, FUCKING FINALLY, Flashback Friday, Friends to Lovers, Lesbian Sex, Portland Thorns, That Australia game where Lindsey scores at the very end, That touch, Tourney of Nations, USWNT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24194524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyDoIWrite/pseuds/WhyDoIWrite
Summary: "The truth is, the way Lindsey’s shorts are sitting – so low over her thigh – she really should pull them back up.  The truth is, the way Sonnett is looking at her now, a little shyly, but with this undeniable desire, is stopping her.  And the truth is, Lindsey wants Sonnett’s hand there.  When Lindsey laces her fingers in Sonnett’s and pulls Sonnett’s arm across her waist, she realizes that no one has ever looked at her like Emily Sonnett is looking at her right now."
Relationships: Lindsey Horan/Emily Sonnett
Series: Flashback Fridays [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747891
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97





	The Truth Is...

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the USAvAUS game they replayed for us last night, I give you this...
> 
> ...because it's a good way to avoid updating anything else that needs updating.

“How’s your hip?” Sonnett nudges Lindsey’s shoulder as she’s drifting off, lulled to sleep by the hum of the bus rolling down I-84 back to Hartford and the softness of Sonnett’s body against hers. 

“Hmm?” Lindsey mumbles. 

“Your hip.” Sonnett has to resist poking it. Usually, she would poke a bump or a bruise in jest, because it’s fun to make Lindsey squirm, but this one is different. This one hurt her. KK had been on the wrong side of too aggressive all game, first with Tobin and later with Lindsey. When Lindsey went down midway through the second half, and stayed down for a touch too long, Sonnett knew Lindsey wasn’t just trying to draw a whistle, even when she waved off the trainers. She felt this immediate urge to run to Lindsey, but this wasn’t the NWSL. They were losing, and Becky had the defense huddled in the back. Unable to check on her best friend, the next feeling that coursed through her body was fear, but that was quickly replaced by rage once she saw Lindsey get up and walk it off. Before she knew it, the ball was in play and Lindsey was all the way back in their defensive half, directing Sonnett to mark Chloe, who had slipped in behind her. Lindsey pulled up a couple of times over the next few moments, but pushed through the pain, like always. It paid off in the 90th minute.

Sonnett had to watch her goal from the bench after playing almost the whole game with Lindsey. She watched as Lindsey went up awkwardly for Pinoe’s corner, that leg almost dragging like dead weight. But it was still enough for Lindsey to get up over her defender and over the ball. A perfect offensive header – down and away from Lydia’s hands. Goal number six. Sonnett hadn’t been there for all of them, but seeing Lindsey score is always her favorite part of any game, because Sonnett knows how much every single goal means to her. She wished she could have been there for Lindsey to run into her arms instead of Rose's, but at least she was there for after.

“Hurts,” Lindsey says almost incoherently, tucking her arm around Sonnett’s and leaning heavier against her shoulder. Normally, Lindsey would dismissively say something like, “It’s fine,” so Sonnett knows it’s actually a bigger deal than Lindsey’s letting on this time. But she also knows that Lindsey didn’t want to lose to Australia, didn’t want to go back to Portland to hear all the teasing from the Aussies about how they had defeated the US twice in a row. And Lindsey always takes losses squarely on her shoulders. So she stayed on the field until the final whistle blew, and other than a standard ice bath, didn’t tell the training staff how badly KK's knee in between her muscles really hurt. 

While the rest of Lindsey’s National Team teammates don’t get to see it often, Sonnett has a front row seat to how hard Lindsey is on herself everyday in training. She doesn’t ever say it, but Sonnett knows how deeply frustrated Lindsey is by not scoring more for their country in the past 50-some-odd games, how heavily it weighs on her. It’s in all the extra hours Lindsey puts in after training while Sonnett quietly shags without being asked to. It’s in the way Lindsey always asks Sonnett to sleep in her bed when she doesn’t score. It happens less often in Portland, where she’s been on fire this year, but it’s how Lindsey sometimes ends up at Sonnett’s apartment after a game. And plenty of nights on the road with the National Team, someone’s been kicked out of a hotel room so Lindsey can fall asleep next to her best friend. Lindsey handles not scoring decently when it’s with the Thorns; she beats herself up when she gets on the pitch in the red, white, and blue and can’t finish. There’s still a part of Lindsey stuck in 2015, unable to get past not making that World Cup roster. There’s still a part of Lindsey that fears she won’t make it back to France or won’t make it onto the field. Just like a part of Sonnett will never get past that six-month period when she stopped getting call ups.

So Lindsey will hide her injury in hopes that she’ll get the nod over Sam in a few days.

And Sonnett will continue to feel like she’s not good enough, even when she’s given - when she earns - solid minutes.

“Switch with Moe tonight.” Lindsey’s voice is more awake but muffled against the fabric of Sonnett’s jacket. It’s unexpected. They didn’t lose. Lindsey scored. She shouldn’t need Sonnett tonight. She was happy after the game. But Sonnett’s smart enough not to argue. And she knows that Lindsey expects her to be the one to kick Morgan out of her own room.

* * *

Lindsey grimaces as she crawls into bed and reaches for Sonnett’s hand under the covers. “You played so well tonight.” Sonnett lets out this little grunt of acknowledgement as Lindsey squeezes her hand, the one she reserves for when she feels Lindsey is trying to placate her, or trying to give her a little confidence boost. But that’s not what Lindsey’s doing, at least not tonight. “I mean it, Sonny. The way you tackled Chloe was clean. And from the wrong side even. She was going to goal,” Lindsey gushes. She can’t help it, even though she knows that kind of attention makes Sonnett uncomfortable. Predictably, even with a moment as big as that tackle, Sonnett only sees something else, some way she’s lacking where others aren’t.

“Yeah, but you were back there.” Sonnett sounds almost sad when she says it. 

“I’ll always have your back, on the field or off.”

“But you shouldn’t _have_ to. You should be able to trust me. You don’t do that for anyone else.” Sonnett can’t hide the little tremble in her voice.

Suddenly, it all makes sense, what Sonnett is talking about – the way Lindsey elevates her game every time they’re on the pitch together. No one else has ever seemed to pick up on it, Lindsey didn’t even know Sonnett had. But she’s the most perceptive person Lindsey knows; of course she can sense the difference. The way Lindsey drifts right, often switching positions with whomever is on the other side of Julie. Lindsey’s constant movement to make sure Sonnett always has _her_ as an outlet pass when the ball’s at her feet or for a throw-in. The way Lindsey won’t drop the ball back to Sonnett if Sonnett is under too much pressure, preferring to hold it, even lose it herself, so long as Sonnett isn’t the one put in a tougher position. The way she tracks back, deep into their defensive end, even in the 72nd minute when she’s exhausted. Lindsey plays her heart out all the time, but every time she gets to be on the field with her best friend, something pushes her to the next level. That something is how bad she wants to see Sonnett be successful. She wants it almost as much as she wants success for herself.

Sonnett changes the subject. “ _You_ were great tonight. The Great Horan saved us again.” And Lindsey chuckles. She hates that nickname, hates that it’s on a sign and a t-shirt. Except when Sonnett’s the one saying it. “Really though, Linds, we still have a chance at winning this whole thing because of that amazing head of yours” Sonnett says, planting a loud smack on Lindsey’s forehead. “And Jill was just raving about you after,” Sonnett reminds Lindsey, wondering how much of it Lindsey even actually heard. Her head hung low, eyes overly focused on speck of grass on the floor, shoulders sagging, cheeks flushed, as Jill complimented her performance in front of the team in the change room. There’s a part of her that’s still not used to praise like that after all her time in France, and a part of her that still feels like she doesn’t deserve it. Even when she scores a clutch goal. At the end of the night, all she was left with the energy to feel was relief, not happiness. And anxiety – that it wasn’t enough and she won’t get the start against Brazil.

“I can’t wait to watch you play in France,” Sonnett continues. “You’re going to own that place. Gonna crush it out there. Destroy some Frenchies.”

“And you’re gonna be right there with me,” Lindsey says without missing a beat, but this time, she doesn’t get a response out of Sonnett. The statement hangs there heavily in the dark silence between them, both fully aware that they have no way of knowing whether that’s going to be true or not. They’re a year out from the World Cup, but sometimes, it feels like they could just fall asleep, close their eyes for a minute, and it would be roster day when they opened them. Everything they do on the pitch is magnified right now, it all leading to this ultimate goal they share. 

“You’ve been getting solid minutes,” Lindsey deflects the attention away from herself and away from the uncertainty. “Seventy-eight tonight. You know Jill doesn’t just _give_ those away. Except a few here and there to Carli to keep her tolerable,” Lindsey tries to lighten the mood. Then she softens, running her thumb along the inside of Sonnett’s wrist. “When are you going to start believing in yourself?”

“Someday,” Sonnett says hoarsely, turning into Lindsey and burying her face in the hoodie that smells like home. 

Lindsey isn’t sure someday will ever come. If the Thorns don’t repeat as champions, Sonnett’s going to blame herself. If Sonnett doesn’t make the World Cup roster, Lindsey wonders if she’ll ever recover from it. And even if she makes the World Cup roster next year and then doesn’t play, it will just be further proof in her eyes that she isn’t worthy. She’s not going to see all the potential she has to be great. 

And Lindsey gets it. She knows exactly what it’s like to play every day with that kind of self-doubt, she just doesn’t know how to make it any better. For either of them. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” Lindsey says gently, knowing it’s stupid because Sonnett would say the exact same thing to her. Sonnett sniffles a little. “You were so great tonight. You’ve been doing so well. You’re the heart and soul of the Thorns, Son. One day, you’re going to be the heart and soul of this team, too. You’ve got that fire, just like Kell. That’s gonna be you.”

She tries to turn onto her side so she can hold Sonnett, but it hurts too much and she lets out a whimper. “I can hold you,” Sonnett offers, allowing Lindsey to roll onto her other side so she doesn’t have to put any pressure on that leg. Sonnett props herself up on her elbow and instinctively reaches up to brush Lindsey’s cheek for a minute, trying to comfort her. “Lemme see.”

Lindsey lets out a groan as she lifts up to edge her shorts down under her hipbone. Sonnett clicks on the bedside lamp. Bruising that wasn’t there earlier has started to spread. Sonnett can’t help but ghost her fingers over the faint purpling that’s streaking down Lindsey’s thigh from where the blood dripped internally as she kept playing. Lindsey flinches, but not because it hurts; she can hardly even feel Sonnett’s fingers on her skin, she’s so gentle. “Sorry,” Sonnett mumbles, pulling her hand back, and for a split second, Lindsey thinks about catching Sonnett’s hand midair and putting it right back where it was. Instead, she lets Sonnett keep her hand to herself, for now, but she turns her shoulders so she can get a better look at Sonnett’s face. It’s safer to just let Sonnett think that it hurts to touch than to let her know the truth. There are a lot of things safer than the truth.

The truth is, Lindsey’s only touchy with everyone else so no one thinks anything of it when she’s touchy with Sonnett.

The truth is, Lindsey’s never felt that tingly heat of skin on skin contact with anyone else.

The truth is, Sonnett’s fingertips on her body – whether her cheek, her back, her hand, her knee, her thigh – make her feel things deep in her core.

The truth has always been hard for Lindsey to face, this strange conundrum of craving Sonnett’s touch and simultaneously fearing it for no justifiable reason. 

The truth is, the way Lindsey’s shorts are sitting – so low over her thigh – she really should pull them back up.

The truth is, the way Sonnett is looking at her now, a little shyly, but with this undeniable desire, is stopping her.

And the truth is, Lindsey wants Sonnett’s hand there.

When Lindsey laces her fingers in Sonnett’s and pulls Sonnett’s arm across her waist, she realizes that no one has ever looked at her like Emily Sonnett is looking at her right now. 

Maybe it’s because she’s tired to the point of feeling drunk. Maybe they both are. Maybe it’s Sonnett’s soft eyes that reassure her. Maybe they were always destined to end up here. Lindsey guides Sonnett’s hand back to that patch of bare skin. The pressure hurts, but it hurts good, and that warm, tingly feeling she gets all over feels even better. 

Lindsey swears Sonnett swallows hard enough that she can actually see the lump in her throat. “Do you want me to go get you some ice? Or an ice cup?” Sonnett offers helpfully, but Lindsey shakes her head, more emphatically than she thought she could muster. “I don’t have Tobin’s healing hands,” Sonnett mutters uncomfortably, squirming next to Lindsey, but Lindsey doesn’t care; Sonnett’s hands are all she wants.

Lindsey’s already gone there, and while she could probably cover it up – explain it away a needing pressure to slow the swelling (and Sonnett would totally go along with that excuse) – she doesn’t want to. She loves how nervous Sonnett is right now; but she loves Sonnett’s confidence even more. She thinks she can get both out of her tonight. “I don’t want your hands for healing,” Lindsey murmurs. 

“Well what do you want ‘em for?” Sonnett asks, trying so hard to sound suggestive and self-assured, but the trembling of her hand gives her away, and she buries her face into Lindsey’s shoulder, trying to hide again.

“Sonny,” Lindsey says gently, reaching around to graze the back of Emily’s neck, and she’s pleasantly surprised that Emily's hand stays right where she placed it. Lindsey’s short nails dig just a bit into Sonnett’s scalp as she tangles her fingers through Sonnett’s hair, and Sonnett closes her eyes. A bit of a contented sigh escapes her lips before she bites down on her lip to stop it. Scalp massages are the best. “Sonny, look at me.” Emily’s eyes snap back open at the sound of Lindsey’s voice. “I want you. I want you to show me what those hands can do.”

“You’re hurting, and it’s late, and you’re tired and we’re - ”

“And we’re off tomorrow. No wake-up call. No plans,” Lindsey interrupts. Their loosely discussed coffee date with Rose and Mal can wait til the afternoon. “But if you don’t want to…”

“I do. I want to. So bad,” Sonnett jumps in nervously. “But I’ve been waiting two years. I can wait a few more days. You’re hurting.”

Two years. Two years that Lindsey’s known, deep down, how much Sonnett wanted her, but for two years, she’s never said a word. “It’s just a deep muscle contusion. A little gentle movement’s good for it. Keep it from stiffening up.” She watches Sonnett furrow her brow as she thinks about it, deep lines creasing her forehead. It feels like she can almost see Sonnett’s mind racing, and she’s certain she can hear Sonnett’s heart pounding. Or maybe it’s her own pounding in her ears. “I don’t wanna wait. I want you now, Sonny.” 

She can feel Sonnett’s breath, ragged against her neck now and Sonnett’s fingers pushing her shorts farther down as her fingers drift to Lindsey’s ass. Lindsey lets out a hard breath through her nose that she had been holding, waiting to see what Sonnett was going to do. Sonnett’s fingers gripping her ass just makes her want more. She grabs Sonnett’s hand again and guides it under her shirt, over her ribs, until Sonnett is cupping the underside of her breast. 

That gives Sonnett all the permission she needs, and Lindsey gets the confident Sonny she was longing for. 

The Sonnett who sends shivers through her whole body as she runs her tongue along the well-defined muscles in Lindsey’s neck, now fully flexed in anticipation of what’s to come. 

The Sonnett who can make her hum as she rolls Lindsey’s nipples between her fingers. Who causes her abs to tighten as she pinches Lindsey’s already hard nipples.

The Sonnett who expertly works Lindsey’s shorts down until Lindsey can kick out of them.

The Sonnett who guides Lindsey to lean back into her so she can slide her hand in between Lindsey’s legs, where wetness is already pooled, wetness that she slides her fingers through, bringing it up to Lindsey’s clit. Who works Lindsey’s clit over until she’s on the verge of exploding, but never letting her get all the way there.

The Sonnett who teases Lindsey, whispering “Tell me what you want, Linds. Show me, baby,” until Lindsey has no choice but to beg to feel Sonnett’s fingers inside. Who lets Lindsey grip her wrist as her fingers are buried deep between Lindsey’s legs. Who makes Lindsey whine and moan like she never has before.

The Sonnett who spreads Lindsey’s legs apart so gently, but who fucks her with her tongue with an intensity that leaves Lindsey left gripping the hotel sheets until her knuckles are white and a string of curse words is flowing from her lips. Who makes Lindsey forget that anything was hurting earlier.

The Sonnett who knows just how damn good she is.

* * *

“Why now? Why finally now?” Sonnett whispers into Lindsey’s hair. They’ve been lying in bed for a while, Sonnett holding Lindsey close, and she doesn’t even know if Lindsey is even awake still

“Are you complaining?” Lindsey asks, a smile in her voice, and she feels Sonnett shake her head.

“Why’d you take so long?” Sonnett continues to press.

“Hey, at least _I_ finally did something about it. Why’d _you_ take so long?” Lindsey shoots back. The truth is, Lindsey doesn’t have a good answer for why now. 

Because she wants Sonnett around when good things happen too, not just bad. 

Because Sonnett puts her at ease like no one else can. 

Because Sonnett makes her feel seen and heard.

Because she has the strength to resist a lot, but she couldn’t resist being touched _there_. 

Because Sonnett looks at her in a way that makes her feel like she deserves to be loved deeply. 

Because they both want the best for each other.

“Scared,” Sonnett mumbles.

“Me, too. I’m sorry,” Lindsey replies, squeezing Sonnett’s hand. And she is sorry. Sorry that it took her so long to appreciate the vulnerable human being next to her. Sorry for all the time she let her fear win out. Sorry she didn’t realize that the woman who has been by her side was _it_ for her all along. 

“It’s ok. Doesn’t matter. This is all that matters,” Sonnett says sleepily, placing a kiss on Lindsey’s bare shoulder.

And the truth is, Sonnett’s right. It doesn’t matter how long it took, or when it happened. It doesn’t matter who made the first move. All that matters is they figured it out. Fucking finally.

**Author's Note:**

> So... what if I do a whole Flashback Friday series based on random little moments like this? Y’all could suggest old moments, between any players, I suppose, and I could try to turn it into something.


End file.
